


The Rider of Helheim

by Magna_Infernus



Category: Overlord - Maruyama Kugane & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bone Daddies everywhere, Bow before Lord Motorboner, First time writing an Overlord fic, Gen, I'm terrible at dialogue and relationships, Inspired by many brilliant Overlord fanfic authors, OC is like an annoying younger sister, POV Second Person, Some Seriousness, i think, kinda sorta a reader-insert, much humour, potentially OP character, this is gonna go badly though I'm doing my best
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:33:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23330221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magna_Infernus/pseuds/Magna_Infernus
Summary: Ragnarök came and went in the blink of an eye, leaving not a single mark on you or your Guild.That's good, of course, what with the memories and bonds you established in the game, and the big ol' skeleton-mage you owe near everything to.That said, if someone could tell you why you have a flame-filled skull for a face, why your avatar's body is in place of your own, and why the world seems to have changed around you, that would be juuuust great. Anyone?
Comments: 18
Kudos: 80





	1. Ragnarök?

**Author's Note:**

> Right then, this is my first foray into the wonderful world of Overlord fanfiction. I'll admit that this is more a confidence-boosting exercise and an effort to learn how to write for this community than anything else; hopefully, this won't prove to be complete and utter garbage. If it does, please offer constructive criticism in the comments. 
> 
> I was heavily inspired by many of the brilliant authors in the Overlord category on this site, so I'll list the fics that inspired elements of this fic:
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/20514566/chapters/48687098 - Curse of Eden, by JoJo419
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/16873440/chapters/39625050 - Child of Jörmungandr, by Download077 (First author of the Overlord fandom I read; indirectly got me into this).
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/17438255/chapters/41057645 - The Kids Aren't Alright, by AGoodBean117
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/19168576/chapters/45562900 - Siren's Song, by sleepysheepies.
> 
> Though I doubt any of them will see this: thank all of you for your amazing writing, and the inspiration that you have provided to me and others.

Normally, entering Yggdrasil would be a pleasure – it is, after all, the place you can leave behind all the choking, constricting expectations and demands of your position. The place where you could go as you pleased, do as you desired, and befriend whoever your desired. It was an escape, a place to blow off steam and be your _true_ self, rather than the simpering, ruthless corporate bitch your lineage 'required' you to be.

This time, though, entering it tastes bitter. Sad.

You’d heard the announcement; everyone who was someone in Yggdrasil heard it. The game was shutting down, taking thousands of hours of play and countless amounts of data with it.

You’d raged, wept, prayed it wasn’t true. Behind closed doors, of course; your rivals would have your emotional outburst used to discredit you, and you were already on thin ice after your last little episode.

You remember well how you first entered the game. Before the demands of your status drove you away, you’d loved riding horses, out on the privately-owned field your family had purchased so long ago. It seemed only appropriate that you take a similar role in this new world.

You’d worked on character creation alone for hours, meticulously and painstakingly crafting your avatar: Moore Tis, you called her, in a terrible pun you’d no doubt come to regret (ah, the days of youth and edginess). She was a hulking brute, unlike the slim, light form of your real-world self. Heteromorphic, if only for the challenge; her body consisted of a mass of bones held together by caged blue-white flame, a horned skull filled with fire as a face and a set of bone wings flaring at the back. That last one was mostly decorative, admittedly, but _damn_ it looked cool!

You hadn’t been able to grab a mount immediately, as you’d desired, but…

Well, some setbacks were good, you supposed. Moore Tis could afford failures where you couldn’t; where she could fail and rise again, you had no 'respawn' option. The challenge was just part of the Yggdrasil experience. You dying to a band of PK-ers in your first hour had proven that pretty quickly. The first few months were a constant game of cat and mouse: attack dungeons for loot, run like hell when other players showed, swear when you find their killing you caused the loss of that super-rare blade, never go AFK lest you return to the death-screen.

You’d become what you wanted in the end, anyway, despite the months and years that it took you: the Biblical Horseman of Death, a murderous, nigh-unstoppable killer striking down anything in opposition to her with spell and sword alike!

At least, until you met Momonga. _That_ was a much-needed humbling on your part, though you maintain that that one-hit-kill spell he used is BS-tier OP. 

The loading (and the impatient tapping of your finger) finally comes to an end as you spawn in. Nazarick’s Ninth Floor, where the Round Table awaits. Once, this place could've held the whole Guild in a single meeting and still have room for players to stand, discussing grand strategies or the latest updates to the game. Now, only one figure sits - hulking and robed, one of the last, greatest remnants of the greatest Guild.

“Good to see you could make it.”

Momonga, your mentor and the one who recruited you into the Guild, sends you a smiley emoji. You answer with a slight inclination of your character’s flaming head; smiling never really has felt right, in or out of character.

“Wouldn’t miss this for anything, Lord Motorboner.” You answer, arms crossed. Momonga grins – well, flashes a smiley and laughing emoticon – at your original, long-since-regretted name for him, before gesturing for you to take a seat. Normally, you would've said you'd prefer to stand, out of habit as much as anything. This time, you only hesitate for a moment before lumbering forward and setting into one of the bigger chairs.

_It’s the last day of the world, why not?_

Your eyes sweep over the empty table, and your heart aches slightly at the sight of so many empty chairs. So many great comrades, now gone, soon to be gone forevermore. “We’re the last two?”

He nods, grimly. “Herohero left a few moments ago. Other than that…”

Two skeletal hands, one covered by a gauntlet and one covered in rings, clench in near-perfect sync before ramming into the table. A few damage numbers glow before you, but you couldn’t care less. This place was your home, damn it all! Who cares if the game is old and outdated; this place gave you more memories and pleasure than anything else, and now you’re supposed to just sit down and take it as it vanishes before you?

_Fuck. That._

Momonga looks equally frustrated, skeletal hand clenched firmly upon the tabletop. After a long moment, he breathes out and turns to you. Had his avatar eyes, you’re damn near certain they’d be filled with emotion. God knows yours are.

Your armoured form lumbers over to him, placing one heavy, bony hand on his shoulder. “Nazarick still stands, boss – and as long as we keep our memories, it’ll stand until our dying days. We won’t let it face _Ragnarök_ alone!”

Half-involuntarily, a mess of angry-face and ‘camaraderie’ emoticons flash around your head. The fire of your armour burns brighter and fiercer in agreement, a little visual trick programmed into your avatar a while ago.

Momonga breathes, his prior calm re-asserting itself. Maybe it’s just the comfort of nostalgia and memories, maybe it’s your words, but his hooded head bobs once in agreement before he rises to his feet. The Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown is soon in his hands; you don’t bother to pipe up with an objection. What’s a single rule breach when the world’s to end?

“To the Throne Room, then?” he asks, a note of his old playfulness flitting back into his voice.

You nod your agreement. “To the Throne Room. No better place to end our days.”

The sombre little parade goes through the halls of the Great Tomb of Nazarick, Momonga in the lead, you following just behind him. Some of the NPCs join you at Momonga's command - you recognise them as the Pleiades, the battle-maids of Nazarick. You almost smile at what an outsider may think at the sight of your little parade – it’s like the punchline of a joke: _a dressed-to-the-nines Elder Lich, a troupe of battle-maids, a scarily good butler, and a spooky fire-filled skeleton walk into a bar…_

You shake your head, cleaning away those thoughts. Now is not the time for levity.

Briefly, you entertain the thought of making an excuse, breaking off to explore the Tomb or say goodbye to the Guardians for one last time, if only out of respect for those they represent. From Shalltear’s hilarious levels of min-maxing, to Demiurge’s perfect façade of gentility and respect, they are the last legacy of comrades long-since departed. No better way to respect them than paying tribute to them one last time. Maybe you could even head down to the Armoury to grab your more powerful items, like Caladbolg. Go out dressed to the nines and carrying your very best weapons, like the Boss has chosen to do.

It wouldn’t be right, though – leaving the Boss to face the end alone, after all he’s done for you in the game?

He's the one that humbled you all those years ago. He's the one who vouched for you to the Guild, and convinced them to let you into their ranks. He's the one who let you become the in-game powerhouse that you are, and you owe damn near everything you have in Yggdrasil to him and his actions.

Sad as it is, you’re not letting that happen. Even if it means a few less memories of this place and the NPCs you love.

* * *

When the two of you reach the Throne Room, you don’t bother with any greetings or commands towards the NPCs. Your eyes roam the walls, the ceiling, the banners hung from above. Each the mark of a Guild Member long past; the mark of friends long gone. Every detail is obsessively committed to memory, though you can’t help the bitter anger at the Devs’ failure to implement a screenshot function.

It’s the movement and the low rustle of fabric that drags you back to reality. The NPCs are kneeling, on either side of the red carpet; Momonga himself is sat upon the throne, Staff in hand. To anyone else, he would look deep in contemplation – to you, he’s fixed his eyes to the steadily ticking clock.

You canter up and beside him, letting your eyes glow lightly within your helm as your peer down at the closest NPC. The massive sword in your right hand almost slips and falls before you catch it, your grip forgotten for a moment as you try to commit every detail to memory.

“Albedo, isn’t it?” You ask, head tilting lightly as you study the winged NPC.

Momonga nods, bringing up her character sheet with a quick flick of the wrist. “Yes, that’s her,” A small, nostalgic smiley pops up in the air beside him. “Tabula really did go the mile on the detail for this one…”

The character sheet comes to an end with one of the reveals Tabula so liked to pull: pretty though she looks, Albedo’s secretly ‘a bitch’. Momonga laughs aloud at that, and it takes a hard bite to your tongue to prevent you from laughing with him. A flick of his hand, and the lines shift and alter, new code taking root. A quick sign-in on your part shows the change:

'She is in love with Momonga.'

Back in the real world, a wicked little grin comes to your face. If the world's going to end, why not make a little change of your own?

Momonga's avatar's eyes don't so much as blink, but you can envision him visibly blinking in surprise as the line appends itself.

‘She is in love with Momonga (and calls him ‘Bone Daddy’).'

“Really, Moore? _Really?!_ ” He puts his skeletal hands over his face, his amused tone putting the lie to his apparent exasperation. You swiftly delete the last little bit – too silly, if Tabula would like it – before answering him with a ‘I-don’t-know-what-you mean’ smiley. “Oh… Tabula would love to see this.” 

_…Goodbye levity, it was nice knowing you for a few seconds._

Unbidden, a few words come from your lips.

“It’s been fun, hasn’t it?”

Momonga twitches lightly on the throne, and you hastily continue.

“Boss- Momonga… thank you for letting me join Ainz Ooal Gown. You’ve taught me a lot- and- and-”

Goddamn it, you’re starting to choke up. You're the prospective heiress to a company that could build a new god, then bribe the existing ones to give it life; your family's influence spans the world from one pole to the other, your words have made and broken whole companies, and yet you can't spit it out to someone you've never even met in person. If this wasn't as serious as it was, no doubt that you would be laughing aloud at how _ridiculous_ it is.

"Moore," Momonga looks at you intensely, the eyes of his skeletal face aglow as ever, and conveys as much of a smile as is possible with his avatar's frozen face. “We've both given our all to the Guild. That’s all any of us could ask for.”

Your lips twitch, and despite the pain it causes, you smile in the real world. The lump in your throat is still there, but it seems lessened, somehow; you begin to speak Nazarick's eulogy, addressing the empty air.

“We started out as comrades, and now, years later, we are family. It’s here that we created ourselves, discovered each other, became who we are today. We’ve ridden from one end of Yggdrasil to the other, made the Nine Realms know and remember our names – even found real-life love and companionship in these halls. May we all meet again, in person or in another place and time!”

One last cry, the final legacy of Yggdrasil. One last cry, before you move on from the game you love. One last cry, to echo through Helheim forevermore. You draw and raise your sword, towards the vaulted roof, high overhead, and roar your final words in Yggdrasil. The fires in your bones raise and spill out of your armour's joints as you speak, driven by the increased volume detected by your microphone.

“Long last the Great Tomb of Nazarick! May our names and memories never fade!"

Scarcely half a minute remains, a companionable silence falling over the two of you.

 _So,_ You can't help but think. _This is how YGGDRASIL dies. Not with a bang, but with a silent whimper._

A sudden flash of anger comes, boiling hot in your chest: Yggdrasil deserves better than this! It deserves to go out in a blaze of glory, in _Ragnarök:_ players fighting an unstoppable Devourer of the Nine Realms and its minions, World Boss fighting World Boss and fracturing the Nine Realms apart as they go, with all the Guilds and players going in for one last, glorious battle!

One final event, to send this dream world out on a high note.

_That would be a worthy fate, indeed._

23:59:56

Damn the Devs for not making a screenshot function – you would’ve given much to have a single, permanent memory of the game.

23:59:57.

 _Ragnarök_ approaches.

23:59:58.

Your eyes flutter, sleep calling at the edges of your senses. You blink it away, furiously. You aren’t letting YGGDRASIL or Momonga go alone into the dark. No doubt you will both find yourself regretting this in the morning when the tiredness hits and work is calling, but for the moment, neither of you are capable of caring less.

_Not alone. Not like this._

23:59:59.

A final Dev message flares before your eyes – some simpering ‘we’ll all miss you, thanks for playing (we hate you all)!’ message that you flatly refuse to read _._

00:00:00.

Your eyes close, ready to sleep at last despite the lump of lead sliding down your throat and settling deep in your gut.

_Goodbye, my friends._

_00:00:01._

The Status Bar keeps ticking.

Your eyes flick open.

Maybe the Developers are just a bit late in turning things off. Yes, that must be it; there’s bound to be some lag between the announced end and the actual end.

Time passes, yet not a thing changes. No black screen of death, no Dev message, certainly not the churning nausea and dislocation of an abrupt disconnection.

_Am I lagging?_

Your eyes sweep down to your gear: the heavy black armour, fitted specially to your form, that encases your bone-and-fire body; the monstrously large sword covered in demonic faces, enchanted and augmented to hell and back by the Blacksmith. A long, fire-tattered cape hangs at your armoured back, with a half-decorative sheathe for an extra weapon rising to just below the horned, full-face helmet that engulfs your avatar’s head. You'd had to get rid of your avatar's bone-wings to wear all this, but you don't regret a thing.

Strange… you feel far _weightier,_ somehow. Your fingers curl in slightly, and close on the cold handle of your weapon.

_Wait a moment…_


	2. ...What Now?

Something is off. Way off.

Your rig doesn’t have high-grade temperature simulation. You’d tried to get it, a while back – that hadn’t ended well, what with Father finding out about it.

Even if your rig did, Yggdrasil _didn’t_ – beyond the basic motor functions needed to control your character, the mechanics were pretty tame compared to the newer, full-sensory-experience games. It did _have_ temperature, for spells and environments, just not to the degree where you would really ‘feel’ it.

One hand slowly raises to your face. A finger touches it. You nearly recoil as you feel coldness, of all things, accompanied by the hard, solid weight of the gauntlet upon your hand.

This cannot be real. This _cannot_ be real.

If it is, you’ve been straight up _Isekai’d_ , and that’s the sort of thing that happens only in bad wish-fulfilment and manga (you studiously ignore the memory of reading such things under the covers, long after your mandated bedtime). This must be a dream, caused by lingering memories of Yggdrasil and your tiredness.

The sense of cold air on your suddenly hard, stiff skin and the weight of your gear, however, say otherwise. If this _is_ a dream, it’s by far the most realistic you’ve had, devoid of the usual weirdness and random jumps from image to image.

Your heart should be racing at the moment – God knows you’re nervous enough – but you can’t feel anything. That’s… honestly more alarming than the realism, because _oh god oh god my heart isn’t beating what-_

A calm rushes over you, a wave of ice-water dousing the rising fire of panic. Your breathing – or at least, its equivalent – returns to normal, right as a voice speaks up beside you.

“Did they delay the shutdown?”

That’s not Momonga’s voice. You’ve heard it long enough to know his voice at a word; his voice is nowhere near as deep as that, nor does it _reverberate,_ of all things.

Slowly, and with the near-audible creak of shifting metal and bone, you turn towards the throne of Ainz Ooal Gown.

A rather gaudily-dressed skeleton looks back, red eye-lights aglow and the Staff of Ainz Ooal Gown in its hand. The posture, the immense number of powerful items on its person, the arcane strength flowing off the black robes – all of it screams power and influence, but-

 _Wait a moment. Isn’t that_ Momonga’s avatar?

The skeleton slowly turns to look at you, and no amount of jewellery or robe fabric can disguise the utter confusion on its hooded ‘face’. It twitches a finger at thin air, only for its confusion to visibly grow as nothing happens.

“Where’s the Console gone?” Momonga mutters in confusion, red eyes flickering in the shadows of his hood.

“What’s with the voice, boss?”

That’s not your voice, either. You don’t sound like you drink gravel and gargle magma, for one. For two, you’re pretty sure your mouth is meant to _move_ when talking.

“Hmn?” Momonga raises a hand to his throat, only to freeze as he touches the exposed bones of the neck. His head slowly creaks downwards to stare at the ribs exposed by his robes, before snapping up to look directly at you once more. “What the-?”

Your chest heaves slightly, a hoarse laugh breaking loose. “Momo, I think we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

You’re certain his eye twitches. Or at least, the spooky-scary-skeleton equivalent to an eye twitch. He knows the joke, and gives you a completely flat _look_ with his expressionless face.

Any further thought or reactions are stalled by the voice of a third party.

“Lord Momonga? Lady Moore? Is there a problem?”

To an outsider, it would have been amusing. You, The Pale Rider of Helheim, and Momonga, the Guild Leader of Ainz Ooal Gown, the most dreaded figure in the realm, both completely and utterly speechless. Frozen in shock, with your respective jaws near literally on the floor.

The kneeling NPCs look to you with far more concern than any programming or screen could convey. Any remaining doubts about this not being real die screaming almost instantly.

One of them catches your eye in particular – the black-winged, horned form of Albedo, advancing towards the two of you (or rather, towards Momonga) with an expression of open concern. Your scrambling for an excuse – what _are_ you even meant to tell an apparently suddenly self-aware NPC?! – is halted by a short answer from Momonga.

“Yes, Albedo.” A lie, one transparent enough a blind man could see through it. Things are _very much wrong_ at the moment, but she seems to swallow the answer without suspicion.

You turn towards him, eyes aglow through the holes of your helmet. He looks back out of the corner of his eye, waiting and watchful. Waiting for you to speak, you guess.

“Aye, within, at least,” Multiple pairs of eyes turn to you, almost all of them NPCs. You continue, keeping your façade of leadership up as much as you can. “ _Without_ , however… something is wrong.” You shake your head for emphasis, just like your PR instructor taught you. “I know not what, but something _feels_ wrong.”

Every eye in the room is on you, standing beside the throne; if you still had a face, you’d be trying hard not to flush crimson under the many stares. The silence and stillness drag on for long moments, not a single person speaking. Fear and nervousness flares in your gut, deep and instinctual.

 _You can talk fearlessly to a crowd of investors and corporate sharks, sway the one percent of one percent with a speech... but you can’t talk to a bunch of half-mindless NPCs?_ A little voice sneers, deep in the back of your mind. _Nice going,_ heiress _._

Damn it, you shouldn’t have done this. Maybe you weren't convincing enough; they probably think you’re Momonga’s subordinate, and are waiting for you to be brought back in line-

Momonga breaks the silence with a nod of approval. Ice runs down your spine, cold and oddly pleasant, the prior calm returning with surprising speed. You let go a breath you didn’t know you were holding, pushing that little voice back down into the black depths of your head.

“Sebas,” He orders, deep and echoey. “Exit the Tomb and investigate our surroundings. If anything is amiss, report back.”

The elderly, well-dressed gentleman bows deeply in answer, every inch the perfect butler. His mouth moves with far more precision and… well, far more _humanity_ than you’ve ever seen before. It’s almost uncanny, an unnerving change after years and months of standardised animations. They seem so jerky and crude, now, compared to the sudden eloquence and humanity his motions display. “As you wish, my Lord.”

Momonga looks over to you, expectantly. You follow his lead, addressing the remaining NPCs, trying to call on the public speaking skills drilled into you back in the real world.

“Pleiades, begin patrolling the Ninth Floor. If any intruders are found, terminate them,” You order, putting on your best ‘commanding’ voice and tone. “If you are unable to terminate any intruders, alert us.” The ‘and we will deal with them ourselves’ at the end goes unsaid. None of the maids comment on it, though, simply indicating their agreement with nods and moving off to begin their tasks.

By this point, the two of you are almost alone in the Throne Room – Albedo, as ever, is present, half-lurking off to the side. She looks almost reluctant to leave his side, giving him a look and blushing like a- oh, hell. 

Momonga slooooowly turns his head to you; Maybe he’s fully twigged the implications of that line, maybe not. Either way, it’s hard not to giggle at the expression on his face… eyes? Whatever – the expression on his face is veritably _priceless._

_Wait a moment. If those NPCs are now real, then…_

You turn fully towards Momonga. “May I take my leave?”

He nods, hooded eyes aglow. “Meet me back here in... an hour, maybe? I have a few things to test.”

You nod by way of answer, before looking down at the ring under your armoured fingers. How _do_ you teleport, anyway? Just think really hard about it and be there? Worth a shot.

You focus on the memory of the place you want to be – the Ring of Ainz Ooal Gown will take care of the rest, you hope. The noise around you fades out, and the surroundings blur oddly for a moment, then there’s the sharp yank behind your spine –

* * *

Back when Nazarick was barely a glint in the Guild’s collective eye, you’d all gathered to divvy up the floors. As floor after floor was parcelled out to the more artistically-inclined members of the Guild, you’d asked for a floor to design, and eventually got your way. (You can still remember the arguments, before the Devs rather abruptly 'awarded' the Tomb an extra floor so long as the Guild held it).

Ulbert had mockingly suggested that you could turn the place into a corporate sweatshop. You’d gone for a more… thematically appropriate route, calling on the work of artists and games now decades gone by. A throwback to the past, from a world that lives for the present.

Two armoured legs slam hard into the hard rock of the ground. The bones jar slightly inside your armour, sending sharp tingles up and down your legs. Weird -you’d think being a skeleton-demon-spirit… _thing_ would take away that sort of sensation. Despite the odd sensation and the faint nausea from the teleport, though, you would be smiling hard enough it hurt if you still had a face.

_Welcome to the Underworld. Enjoy your stay - you’re booked in for eternity!_

The main way in comes in the form of two massive wooden doors, bound and studded with iron to fit with the general ‘swords and sorcery’ theme of Yggdrasil. Much of the level is hacked from greyish-black stone, pathways and natural formations forming from the rocky ground to combine function and form. A false sky glitters overhead: tiny pinpricks of stars provide light for those within the level, and a burning black sun (rimmed with white, barely standing out from the ink-black ceiling) hangs low on the ceiling. Quite the change from the catacombs of the levels above, dusty and dark.

Off to the left lies the training grounds for the level, where the NPCs and minions of the level were - _are_ , rather, programmed to perform idle ‘sparring’ animations when not ‘on duty’. The sound of fighting from there is hardly surprising: it’s probably just an NPC, or one of the numerous Skeletons, duking it out with one of their compatriots on the floor. Nice to see that’s working, admittedly, but it’s not what you’re looking for: you turn to the right, heading deeper into the floor.

The air is cold down here – you’d figured it might as well fit with the whole ‘Tomb’ idea – as you march down the pathways. Spires of rock and ancillary passages arise here and there, splitting off from the blueish stone that marks the central path through the floor. Undead creatures bow to you as you pass, armoured forms lowering their blades and bodies alike in a display of respect. You ignore most of them, give short nods of approval to a few, fixed on finding your path through the floor.

A quick look to the right quickly establishes your location – the oversized, openly leering skull carved from the rock is hard to miss, after all. Childishly grim, even you’re willing to admit that, but appropriately themed and a useful landmark amidst the winding pathways of the Underworld.

_So, I’m near the walls of the floor…doorway out (not that I’ll need it) is found by going down the blue path…so I’m, what, south of where I want to be?_

Your outsize frame squeezes between two spires of rock, before your eyes visibly light up at the sight of four glowing lights. _There we are!_

Despite what some would claim, you did not _skip_ towards the lights. Skipping, of course, would never be appropriate for a lady of your status. You’re just walking a little energetically and quickly. Just that. Certainly. 

The place, despite its humble appearance, is the one of the most important areas on the floor. Four portals arise from the stone, each leading into their own little sub-realm; at the centre of the room, a number of glowing cracks spiderweb across the hard ground. Did you even name this place?

 _The Underworld’s Underworld. No, no, that sounds stupid, even in the head. This place_ is _relatively empty… the Undervoid, then?_

Four of your best NPCs await here, within the portals. You’d based them off of artwork you’d found on the net from a game decades before, customising them for hours on end and even putting some of your own hard-earned cash into their game-forms, to give them weapons and abilities far beyond a normal NPC. Still capable of being defeated, yes, but with more than a few hidden tricks and items that made them damned powerful opponents.

Almost giddy with delight and glee, you raise your head and roar a single command. Time to see your creations up close and personal, as bone, cloth, and metal rather than pixels and light.

“Come forth!”

The burning white one, intense and almost difficult to look at, is the first to enter.

A Centaur… sort of. The lower half is sheathed in bright white light, making it look less like an NPC and more like a featureless, vaguely-equine cut-out; the upper, human half, on the other hand, wears armour over a set of blue-highlighted white robes, cloth draped across the back and flowing out in long streamers. Capping it all off is the silvery crown upon the hooded head and the light-wreathed bow and arrows, all detail obscured by the brilliant glow.

Anyone unfamiliar would think him… her… _it_ angelic – divine, even. You know better: that light is the heat of the Underworld, more than capable of burning a low-levelled foe to the bones. Much like the horse you once rode on back at the field, in that respect – bright, brilliant, beautiful to look at, but mercurial, fierce, and temperamental beneath the gloss.

The heat from the fire washes over your armour, a warm breeze of air from the first of your hand-crafted NPCs. It doesn’t speak, though. Never has, and never will.

The second and third arrive a moment later – unlike the first, everything about the second speaks of solid strength and vast power. Her upper and lower halves are both armoured, heavy, dark red plates engraved with snarling faces and demonic visages covering almost all exposed flesh. Long horns of metal arise from her full-face helm, burning yellowish with heat at the tips, while several blades and arrows arise like spines from her armoured back. The massive greatsword in her hand smokes ominously, a reddish ink-bloom of vapour continually arising and drifting about the weapon.

The third limps forward, both halves sickly-looking and emaciated – looks, however, are hardly everything. Blue robes, trimmed with gold at the edges, cover her upper half, though the armour and muscle beneath them is unmistakable. A pair of short, dagger-like scimitars are gripped in either hand; both the blades glow with white-blue fire similar to that holding your bones together, cold as ice and designed to rain down a storm of stabs and DoT-delivering slashes.

The ornate helmet, shaped to include a pair of weighing scales and two long, curving horns of gold, is more of a vanity project than anything else. Even you admitted that, when first re-designing it; you’d kept it in both due to its impressive appearance, and due to the sense of false security it gave some of the more cocky opponents – what, after all, could such a garish foe do to them?

The last takes the longest to emerge: dark, arcane-runed robes drape the human upper half, while the lower half is visibly skeletal and rotting in several places. Twin skulls form shoulder-guards, and two more hang at the point where greyish human flesh meets the grey-haired horse. The two massive scythes that hang before it, though, are easily the two most recognisable parts: both float just before its hands, the massive scythe-blades glowing green from their enchantments and the elongated, cloth-wrapped handles covered in tiny rib-like spikes of bone.

Conquest. War. Famine. Death.

The Four Horsemen kneel, armoured front legs pressed to the floor and their weapons lowered in respect.

Their grouping is their strength: Peroroncino's work (he'd handled the vast majority of the actual programming, of course) ensured each Horseman would have their stats multiplied by half for each of them alive and present on the floor. With all four riding, their doubled stats made them collectively damn near capable of matching a Floor Guardian in raw power – as long, of course, as they stayed within the confines of the Underworld.

You hadn’t exactly liked that limitation, but it was as good as you were going to get in the original game. _Quadrupling_ their power when all four were alive while letting them roam the Underworld freely, as you’d originally asked him to try and munchkin them into, was just plain unfair and rejected by the game as such, despite his best efforts to find loopholes around it.

You give them the equivalent of a smile – _what_ does _that even look like, anyway? –_ and motion as regally as you can with a hand. “Rise, my Horsemen.”

They obey. None speak, though, seemingly awaiting your commands. _Did I even program in mouths for them? Dialogue? Ah, never mind. They’ll find a way._

You pick your way between them, admiring the sheer level of detail in each: it’s one thing to see your creations on a screen, but seeing them alive truly hammers home the detail – from the snarling faces of War’s armour to the tiny runes upon Death’s scythes, each and every part of them is as excruciatingly detailed as the work of a professional artist. Even their flesh, what little of it is exposed, is as lined and meticulously detailed as that of a masterwork painting, from the tiny creases in the skin to the texture of rippling muscle beneath.

Something wells up in your chest, battling with the ice-water sensation of calm. This must be how those old, legendary artists of past centuries felt, when finishing one of their masterworks: a sense of pride mingled with satisfaction, to see ideas leap from paper and the mind into reality. You’re pretty sure that if you still had eyes, you’d be crying in delight.

You settle for letting your fires burn just that little bit brighter, beneath your armour and within the cage of your bones. War canters forwards, blade lowered and a concerned hand raising to your armoured shoulder. Her unspoken question is clear: _are you alright?_

War squeaks like a toy as you seize her in a hug. The massive Centaur hesitates for a moment, seemingly confused at her creator acting so… _uncreatorly_ , before returning the favour. Out of the corner of you eye, you can see Conquest raising a hand to its facial gap, as though attempting to stop a laugh slipping out; Famine merely tilts her head, and the weighing scales with it, while Death is as stolid and unchanging as ever.

 _Father would have my head on a plate if he saw me like this._ The thought gives you pause, before it’s overwhelmed by a heady recklessness, a burst of rising fire overcoming the calming sensation. _New World, new rules. He can’t touch you now; his orders can go to right down to hell, and he can follow them!_

The moment is promptly killed as a pressure forms in your temples. Not exactly painful, like that of a headache, but insistent – it feels almost ticklish, flitting about at the edge of your mind like a half-forgotten song, or an itchy flake of memory. The more you try and stop focusing on it, strangely, it seems to become _more_ insistent, rather than fading away.

You focus on it, and the buzzing clears. Moments later, a voice. A very familiar voice, at that.

[ _-re, can you hear me? Respond.]_

 _Momonga_. How could you have forgotten?! You were meant to meet him back at the Throne Room!

[ _I hear you, boss, loud and clear. The Queen’s back in her kingdom, and she’s never felt better!]_

A mental noise of relief, similar to a sigh.

_[Good. There’s been a change of plans: all Guardians are to report to the Sixth Floor. Meet me there, rather than in the Throne Room.]_

_[Understood, boss. I’m in the Underworld; the Four are active and assembled. Maybe you could come and see ‘em, sometime – oh, just remembered, just give me a minute or two and I’ll be up to the Sixth.]_

_[Just don’t bring Death with you.]_

_[Oh, come on! Is this because of that ‘Bone Daddy’ thing earlier, boss? He wouldn’t do anything, anyway, beyond standing t-]_

_[I remember that argument you had with Ulbert, Moore. Didn’t you program Death so he despised Demiurge afterwards?]_

You wince at that, any trace of levity gone. It’s a sudden, painful reminder of the past, and of a colleague long since lost.

The two of you had never really gotten long, in or out of the game. He'd called you a simpering bitch with no idea of what the real world was like; you'd called him a misanthropic, petty ass. There'd been numerous arguments between the two of you, over many things: labour practices and politics, mainly, on and off over the years, but that one was particularly nasty. He’d figured out who you were, if only by your hard-drilled mannerisms and an accidental slip of the tongue, and, well... things had gone south faster than a migrating flock. What began as a simple dispute quickly became a poisonous mess, old grudges dug up and hurled at each other, hatred boiling in every word. You still remember your last words to him in that argument - that last insult, that you've been regretting ever since.

For a long time afterwards, you and Ulbert had barely spoken to one another, unless absolutely needed during a Raid or a defensive action. That little bit of programming had been done in a fit of temper, if only to ensure you wouldn’t gut his character where he stood or end up restarting the argument again. You’d barely begun even trying to talk to him again when Real Life dragged you away for months, and by the time you got back, he’d vanished, and it was far too late.

Too late to make up. Too late to explain. Too late to do anything but move along. _Damn it all!_

_[…Point made, boss. I’ll be there soon.]_

The spell ends, the pressure vanishing in an instant. With the rasp of breath and the clink of your armour, you turn to face the Horsemen.

“Death, begin to patrol the Underworld.”

The shrouded Horseman silently nods his acquiescence, before raising his scythes and beginning to canter forwards. The others give him a wide berth, and the hooded Centaur soon turns the corner and is out of sight, marching off deep into the Underworld as a whole. The remaining Horsemen stand silent and waiting, each one looking almost reverent towards you.

_Just don’t bring Death with you. Please._

A wicked little ‘smile’ crosses your face. You’re feeling a bit mischievous, still slightly reckless from earlier, and Momonga left the goal wide open with that one. War slowly turns her head towards you, Conquest and Famine backing away towards the gap in the rocks where Death went as swiftly as dignity permits – only pride and a refusal to provide their sibling with ammunition against them seems to prevent them from breaking into an outright run.

War’s glowing eyes shift upward. She grins under the helmet. You grin right back.


	3. In Which We Have Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter was already queued up, while this one was mostly written today. As ever, constructive feedback is welcome.

The air in the amphitheatre ripples for an instant, before the bulk of your form flashes into existence. Beside you, War stands back upright with a muffled groan, shaking her helmeted head slightly as she climbs back to her hooves. Looks like you were a little off with the Gate’s location, re-appearing in one of the side-passages rather than the central oval.

You look over to your partner for a second, steadying her with a hand as the Horseman (Horsewoman?) sways slightly on her hooves. The massive Centaur bows her head in thanks, before looking intently towards one of several branching passages. One of her hooves paws at the earth, and her human half raises a hand to point towards it before she looks back to you.

You’re no expert on Centaur behaviour, but you’re pretty sure you recognise a desire when you see it. “You want to go this way?”

War vigorously nods at that, the horns atop her helmet glowing brighter with the motion. It’s almost cute, to see a voiceless, nine foot tall killing machine of a Centaur act like this. _…Is she a puppy or a Centaur?_

You shrug to yourself, before motioning forwards. She canters forth, pauses for a moment to check that you’re following, before continuing on her merry way.

Through the long, twisting passages the two of you go, your servant leading you ever deeper into the passageways of the Arena. Every wall bears the same level of detail as you dreamed it would, from the tiny cracks in the stone to the lichen and moss growing on the floor, or hanging down at various points. War herself continually ticks her head about, taking in every bit of the surroundings with open eagerness – or wariness, perhaps, going by the way her blade’s constantly twitching about in her hand.

At last, the two of you come to one of the gates: a heavy, iron portcullis, designed to release either Summoned monsters or the latest batch of idiot adventurers into the main Arena. War stands slightly behind you as you seize the gate’s nearby lever and wrench it upwards. The rattle of iron chains sounds as the portcullis rises up with surprising speed, clearing the way into the Arena proper.

War almost immediately begins to charge forward, violently smoking blade at the ready, only to skid to a halt moments later as it becomes clear there’s no enemies or adventurers to fight. An almost petulant huff comes from her helmet, her head lowering in disappointment. Complete with the slight dissipation of the reddish bloom around her weapon, the ‘disappointed puppy’ comparison comes back with a vengeance. 

You chuckle lightly for a moment, striding up to stand before her. “Better luck next time, big girl.”

That pressure comes to your temples again.

_[Moore…]_

You grin internally, War shifting slightly beside you. The Boss should’ve been a bit more specific with his wording.

_[Technically, Boss, you only told me to leave Death behind.]_

The eye-roll is practically audible. Momonga doesn’t object, somewhat surprisingly; he just looks directly over to you and makes a ‘come hither’ gesture from the other side of the arena.

 _[We bullshitting our way through this, Boss?]_ You ask over [Message], walking towards him as you do.

_[Mostly. Try and act like they’d expect you to when in character.]_

_[Acknowledged, Boss. And Alfred- I mean, Sebas?]_

_[Start planning when he calls back. Hopefully, he’ll have something s-.]_

A flash of purple light. Any trace of levity flees in an instant, as you (and War, at your side) snap to battle-readiness before recognising the signature of a Gate spell.

The heat rises in your helmet’s cheeks – your equivalent to a blush, it seems – at your actions, the first Guardian already stepping forwards into the Arena.

“My, my,” The parasol-carrying Vampire purrs, as she comes walking out of the Gate and into the Arena. Her non-threatening demeanour and frilly, heavily-decorated bell dress put the lie to her power, each step taken with the surety of a true Vampire Queen. The truly hilarious amounts of min-maxing and the specially-programmed tactics certainly help that image; you’ve seen in person what she could do to enemies of Nazarick, giving a whole new meaning to the words ‘drop dead gorgeous’. “I’m the first to arrive?”

Even so, it takes a moment to place her name, lost as you are in the memories of intricate design and programming: Shalltear Bloodfallen, Guardian of the First to Third Floors of Nazarick. True Vampire, and perhaps the strongest NPC in Nazar—

A purplish, frilly cannonball shoots through the air, accompanied by a shriek that Raid Boss Vedrfolnir would be hard-pressed to match. “Lord Momonga!”

Your train of thought promptly derails, runs over a few mind-villagers and explodes.

The Boss, a Lich beyond compare and the Lord of All Nazarick, has just been tackled by a sickeningly-affectionate Vampire. Half-dragged to the floor, and with Shalltear’s hand in a rather _compromising_ position – you swear he wears that orb there on purpose – Momonga manages to turn his head sideways and send you a single message.

_[Halp.]_

You shake your head in answer, your amusement plain. The Boss may be serious at this point; you can tell that much from his earlier actions and the general ‘tone’ of his thoughts, but this is far too amusing to simply intervene in.

“Ah… Shalltear. Thank you for coming.” There’s no mistaking the discomfort in his ‘formal’ voice.

You’re pretty sure his eyes are up _there_ , though, and that Shalltear’s are in entirely the wrong place as he straightens his robes. Her cheeks are flushing, she’s panting heavily, and you’re honestly beginning to wonder if she quietly swapped personalities with Albedo when your backs were turned. The Boss looks like he’s contemplating whether it's too late for _Ragnarök_ , right as her eyes turn towards you.

_Oh, **balls**._

You can practically _hear_ Momonga’s smirk as the Frilly Purple Vampire Cannonball of Doom goes flying at you. _Payback is a bitch, and she’s firmly in heat._

There’s a clatter, a sharp grunt, and the FPVCoD goes flying right back the way she came, tumbling head-over-heels like a cartoon character through the dirt of the Arena.

War lowers her rear legs from their kick, and lets out an unmistakable ‘ _Hmf!’_ , arms crossed over her breastplate and her head lifted slightly upwards. The Horseman promptly turns to you, eye-lights upturned beneath her helm, tail swishing back and forth and a low rumble echoing from her armour – she looks, for all the world, like an overgrown puppy dog seeking approval for her actions.

“War is… rather protective,” You comment to Shalltear as she picks herself up off the ground, glaring daggers at the massive figure beside you. She doesn't look hurt, just miffed and a little ruffled. The brash Horseman returns the glare, stopping only when you place a hand on her back and give her a slight warning look. “Calm, my dear.”

War lets out a soft rumbling noise and bows her head in acquiescence. Shalltear promptly springs at you again, and this time, War doesn’t intervene beyond a slight movement in your direction. She’s a fair bit heavier than you expected, admittedly, but you still catch her with a minimum of fuss and haul her upwards into a hug.

Two things immediately show: One, despite being nothing but bones and metal, you still have quite the range of feeling. Two, Shalltear’s a lot warmer than you expected. You’d expected her to be ice-cold, since she’s Undead, but instead she feels… not exactly _hot_ , per se, but more of a lukewarm temperature, like a cup of tea left to cool for a quarter-hour. _I’m literally made of fire, and_ she’s _the hot one? Is reality out to lunch, or am I forgetting something?_

“Oi, Shalltear! Could you keep your filthy hands off the Lady?”

Shalltear _twitches_ before full-on backflipping off of you – you don’t know how the hell that even works, with that dress – and beginning to argue with the newly arrived Aura. Mare, on the other hand, is nowhere to be seen. _Probably hiding in a hole somewhere. Smart, if this is what he puts up with._

Right as you think that, there’s a tiny plume of sand kicked up over by the Arena’s overseeing box. A small figure scrambles up and over, cheeks flushed with embarrassment that only grows as his sister lays into him. Again.

“Took you long enough, Mare!” Aura scoffs. “Busy napping again?”

His cheeks flush even hotter at that, and his reply comes out half-stuttered. “N-never! I w-was taking c-care of the p-plants in the G-garden-”

Aura doesn’t let him finish, arms crossed and an unimpressed expression on her face. Mare somehow manages to quaver even _more_ under that, visibly shrinking back under the force of his sister’s displeasure. “And _that_ was more important than answering Lord Momonga’s summons?”

You lean slightly closer to Momonga as they begin arguing, careful not to be too obvious in your movements.

“Just like old times, eh, Boss?”

Momonga nods slightly in agreement, amusement creeping into his voice.

“Indeed so. No doubt the others would be proud,” His voice shifts for a moment, as a glaring Shalltear and Aura face off again. Mare appears to be doing the smart thing, and getting out of the way of the PVCoD and his sister. “And a _bit_ embarrassed, to see what they’ve made. For now, I believe it would be prudent to see how close they cleave to their written selves – I doubt loyalty will be an issue, but the more we know…”

“…The better we are.” You finish, nodding your agreement. The whole ‘Lord/Lady’ thing doesn’t entirely sit right – God knows you get enough of that from real-world brown-nosers - but what has to be tolerated must. The training and your ice-down-the-spine-thing will certainly help with that, if nothing else. “I understand, Boss. Just hope we’re convincing.”

A low, warning rumble from War catches your attention. The massive Horseman shifts position slightly, moving protectively to your side as a rather openly nervous Mare approaches your little group. His eyes are flicking between your and Momonga’s forms, then back to the Shalltear-Aura standoff, as though afraid his sister will drag him in to support her at any moment. You beckon him closer with one hand, the other carefully pressed against War’s side. _Stay, big girl._

After a moment of silence between the two of you, Momonga gestures almost regally towards Mare; there’s a few flaws in his posture, and a few subtle little hints of ‘I-don’t-know-what-I’m-doing’ in his voice, but for all that, the Boss is taking to his new role like a duck to water. You hope, at least, if only because you’re following his lead.

“Speak your mind, Mare.” He commands. Mare jumps slightly in surprise at that; you’re almost expecting him to squeak like a mouse and scamper off. After a few seconds spent fidgeting and looking between the two of you, he speaks up, shifting from foot to foot as he goes. It’s almost adorable, in a strange way.

“W-well… It’s… I thought you’d both be scarier people, Lord Momonga, Lady Moore.”

Momonga exchanges another look with you. It’s accompanied by the pressure once again.

 _[Don’t even try it, Moore.]_ He mentally grumbles, already sounding far too old for this crap.

You give him your best mock-hurt look, not even attempting to hide the playful tone in your mental ‘voice’.

[ _You wound me, Boss! I would never **dream** of doing something scary in front of the pure little cinnamon roll!_]

Somehow, his completely deadpan expression manages to become even flatter. Mentally rolling your eyes, you quietly suspend ‘Go Full Spooky Scary Skeletons on Mare’ on your mental list of priorities. [ _Oh, alright, I won’t. Any idea when the rest show u-]_

A massive wave of ice, accompanied by two yelps of shock and a pair of hard thuds, answers that question. The temperature drop and the earthquake-like voice only confirm the arrival of Cocytus, Guardian of the Fifth Floor, Ruler of the Frozen Glacier, and a very literal _knight_ mare to any enemy of Nazarick.

“ **Cease your bickering. You act like children in the presence of the Supreme Beings.”**

You scan your memory, piecing together what you remember of his character: _He’s a knight, personality-wise – respects honour, a fighting spirit, all that jazz; think he had a thing for collecting weapons in there, too._ Takemikazuchi put much of his fighting spirit into Cocytus, and you can only hope that such spirit survives in this New World.

Beside you, War stares at Cocytus with unnerving intensity, gauntlet-clad hand tighter than ever upon her sword’s handle. Though she seems to recognise him as an ally, her hostility is barely restrained; every movement is tense and sharp, and the glow at the ends of her horns has intensified from dull yellow to a bright red. _Well, he is cold-specced. Makes sense that she’d be tense around him…_

Ignoring the rather comical sight of two Guardians sliding around on the ice like novice skaters, Cocytus kneels before the two of you. Diamond dust puffs from his mandibles, and two massive fists slam against his chest in a display of reverence. The fire in your armour burns brighter in answer, blue-white light seeping through the gaps in your armour before receding.

“My thanks for joining us, Cocytus,” You intone, careful to keep your voice formal and respectful. Powerful and regal, but respectful to those who serve you – was that not what your training told you to be? Well, a lack of knowledge on combat may also be part of it, but—

“ **I will always come when you call, Lord Momonga, Lady Moore.”** Loyal and honourable to a fault, just as a knight of the old days would be. His head bows slightly further as he finishes, the many eyes of his face glittering with intelligence and his mandibles clicking quietly. Each movement is fluid and personal, putting the old algorithm-driven ones to shame; it’s like seeing the difference between a live-action movie and one of those old-timey puppet shows.

Albedo and Demiurge emerge from one of the side passages, the smartly dressed 7th Floor Guardian and Throne Room Guardian completing the little gathering.

War, if nothing else, seems to like him somewhat: the massive Centaur doesn’t move or even growl, but merely peers at him with something like curiosity before turning away and resuming her vigil. You're not entirely sure if that's good or not, but at least she's not trying to pull a Shalltear on him.

Demiurge bows to the two of you almost immediately, far more formal than the others.

“My apologies for my late arrival, Lady Moore, Lord Momonga,” Smooth as quicksilver, devotion on every word – and every bit as slimy as a politician beneath the surface. Years have given you an eye for bullshit, and obsequious attitudes hiding other meanings. His words veritably _reek._ “Though I must say, it truly is the highest of honours to kneel in the presence of two Supreme Beings.”

You ignore his flattery, focusing on sending a message to Momonga.

[ _Shall we get started, Boss?]_

[ _Yes. Remember to try a-]_

The train of thought once more derails – thankfully without any explosion this time –as the Guardians turn towards you, looking several times more serious than before. Even Shalltear and Aura have stopped their petty little glare-off; long years of experience and training from even further back promptly (if unnecessarily) lead you to draw one conclusion: shit’s about to get real, really quickly.

That nagging little voice rises once more, reminding you of the initial encounter in the Throne Room; you promptly push that voice back down into the cellar of your mind, ice-water once more flowing down your back. _Treat this like another meeting, and we’ll get through this without any major problems. Hopefully._

“My Lord and Lady,” Albedo begins, taking a knee. Less than surprisingly, her eyes remain on Momonga throughout. “We, the Guardians of Nazarick, pledge our fidelity and allegiance to you both. Let our services be yours, forevermore.”

_Translation: I bow before Lord Motorboner – now put that bony, throbbing shaft in my ass._

It takes several years of training not to choke on air and start laughing, as that damned voice right in the back of your mind pipes up. Amusing and not-so-accurate though those thoughts may be, this isn’t the time for fun – this is the time for business and information gathering, with no room for humour. You wrestle that voice, and the treacherous thoughts it spews, down into the cellar of your mind.

Right on time, too, as Shalltear follows her leader’s example.

“I, Shalltear Bloodfallen, Guardian of the First, Second, and Third floors, bow to the Supreme Beings.”

The others follow suit, each taking a turn to kneel and speak their vows of allegiance.

“ **I, Cocytus, Guardian of the Fourth Floor, bow before the Two Lords.”**

“I am Aura Bella Fiore, Guardian of the Sixth Floor. I serve and obey.”

“I am M-mare Bello Fiore, also the Guardian of the Sixth Floor. I, too, serve and obey.”

“I, Demiurge, the Demon Handler and Guardian of the Seventh Floor, serve and obey.”

“I am the leader of the Guardians, Albedo. I serve and obey.” Albedo looks to you and Momonga with the look of one awaiting orders. “We await your orders, Supreme Ones. Ask of us anything, and it shall be done in your name.”


	4. Guardian Gatherings

A long silence stretches out, as you and Momonga process the implications of Albedo’s words. A normal person would probably be shocked, maybe delighted at the power apparently being granted to them. Who wouldn’t want to be a king or queen, ruling over unquestioning subjects and wielding absolute power? Who wouldn’t want a bit of power, having never tasted it before?

Internally grimacing, you contact Momonga.

[ _Boss? I need a minute.]_

Beneath your calm exterior, a lifetime of experience and training conflicts with personal desire. Half of you wants to step up, take command, act like the leader you’ve been taught to be since day one. The other half just wants to be _yourself_ , rather than swapping the role of ‘simpering corporate bitch’ for ‘evil fantasy overlord’, and damn the consequences. Pragmatism versus the personal. _What must be tolerated must, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Gonna need a minute to get ready._

Momonga’s subtle little nod towards you is answer enough. You withdraw slightly, shifting to a more observant role; let him handle the speaking, while you look to the information-gathering.

“Raise your heads,” He commands the gathered Guardians, voice going from ‘formal’ to ‘Guild Leader’ in an instant _._ There’s uncertainty, sure, a few traces of inexperience, but his words carry unmistakable power and authority. “We are pleased that you all came.”

“Your thanks are wasted upon us,” Albedo answers, her voice firm with conviction. The others nod their agreement as she begins monologuing – some long spiel about obedience and matching your expectations and _enough with all this loyalty! I want thinking subordinates, not mindlessly loyal drones!_

[ _Sebas is almost here. Around two to three minutes._ ]

[ _The sooner, the better, Boss._ ]

“This, we vow.” The monologue finally finishes. Their devotion is commendable, admittedly. _Let us just hope it doesn’t blind them entirely._

 _“_ Most excellent, our Guardians.”

From the side, Sebas approaches, before holding position, apparently unwilling to interrupt Momonga’s little speech. _It’s official: butlers are God’s gift to the incompetent and the awkward._

“We have no doubt that you will perform your duties without issue or failure.”

His eyes turn to you – the implication is clear.

_[You expect me to speak?]_

_[It would certainly help, considering your heritage-]_ You barely restrain a twitch at that. _[Or, more specifically, your skills.]_

You barely restrain a sigh, before nodding sharply. You’d rather leave the talking to him – the NPCs certainly seem to think so, too, looking towards him with expectation writ large upon their features - but he has a point. Nervous though it may make you, he knows well that you can pull a damn fine public speech when needed. 

Putting on the mask of leadership once again, you motion Sebas forwards. Several of the Guardians seem surprised at his approach, eyes turning toward him, questions burning in their eyes. You fully intend to give them answers. _Let’s do this._

“Although you are unlikely to have known, my comrades,” You begin, carefully. “I sensed a disturbance outside of the Great Tomb of Nazarick a short while ago.”

A ripple immediately runs through the Guardians. A wave of emotions show – confusion or incredulity, at them not sensing the disturbance you claim to have felt; curiosity, on those unsure where you’re going with this; surprise at your means of address, treating them as equals rather than subordinates. Anger on the faces of a few, at their seeming failure to properly guard the Tomb.

“Sebas was dispatched to investigate the cause of this, and to report on what he finds.” Tuning to face him, you make as regal a motion as you can, bidding him to speak.

Sebas bows to the two of you, ever the butler, before he begins to speak.

“My Lord and Lady, I must report that the surroundings of the Great Tomb have changed: We are in the grasslands, rather than the swamps,” A ripple runs through the Guardians, visible on (almost) every face. “Furthermore, I cannot confirm the presence of a single building – human or otherwise – within one kilometre of here. We are completely isolated.”

Despite yourself, the analytical parts of your mind immediately click into action.

Those swamps were valuable, as natural coverage and resources went: there were plenty of ambush locations to be used against adventurers, along with numerous highly poisonous plants and arcane reagents present if you knew where to look. Nishikienrai had a field day, what with all the little places to hide. Excellent when used with ranged Summons and NPCs – you could cut an entire party down through poisoned arrows and traps concealed in the foliage, and they’d never even know what killed them. _Thematically appropriate, as well – aren’t Evil Lairs of Ominousness always in swamps or whatever?_

That said, swamps tend to make notoriously terrible foundations for buildings. A grasslands would certainly allow a much more elaborate pre-Tomb defence network, and give ample opportunity for expanding the main base itself. You could only build so far underground before it started getting tangled, after all. War looks openly eager at the idea, too – wide open space and distance would certainly be of value to any mounted troops, and could allow for some brilliant large-scale combat between Summons and the latest batch of idiots.

Designs boil up in your head, ideas long since discarded due to a lack of practicality returning with a vengeance. It takes a moment to force them back down, focusing on the present issues, rather than future prospects. _Get what’s in front of you done, then plan for the future._

You nod to Sebas. “Thank you for your report, Sebas.”

_Be nice to the butler, or the butler will break your bones!_

…And the only thing nicer would be if that thrice-damned voice would _shut up!_

[ _Boss, you want to carry on?]_

_[I will deal with the next speech – speak if you have an idea.]_

You give the mental equivalent of a relieved nod.

[ _Understood, Boss.]_

“As suspected, the Great Tomb of Nazarick has been relocated by unknown means, to an equally unknown land. We must gather information and fortify our defences – and quickly. Knowledge is power, and we will need all the power we can get in this unknown land.” The Boss raises a ring-covered hand, motioning for Albedo and Demiurge to step forward.

“Floor Guardian Leader Albedo, Floor Guardian Demiurge, you are to lead the fortification and information-gathering efforts,” His commanding tone is clear, both the Guardians acknowledging his words with a bow and a nod. There’s a general noise and motion of agreement from the others, as they accept the changing circumstances and their master’s implicit order.

“Mare, is there any way to conceal the Great Tomb of Nazarick?” All eyes go to the rapidly-quailing Guardian. _Poor kid’s already shy. Attention won’t help – learned that the hard way._ You give him a subtle little motion of encouragement, opening a private [Message] directed towards him.

_[Speak, Mare.]_

…In hindsight, going by the audible squeak he lets out, you may have surprised him a little. He recovers with remarkable speed, speaking up with barely a trace of his stutter.

“Well, using only magic would be difficult. But, ah, if we were to use vegetation and soil to cover the Tomb up, we could b-blend in as a hill.”

Momonga nods approvingly; you join him after a moment, pleased at his display of creativity. _Looks like you’re more independent than I gave you credit, kid._ _Very good._

The outraged cry from Albedo, however, is rather _less_ pleased.

“You would smear the Great Walls of Nazarick with _dirt-!_ ”

Mare shrinks back from Albedo’s snarl of anger. A sharp thrill of fury runs through your blood at the sight, burning through the enforced calm, and only Momonga’s sharp cut-off stops you from doing something you’d no doubt regret later.

“Albedo, enough. Do not make such needlessly antagonistic remarks.”

Albedo bows her head in reply, apologetic. “I apologise, Lord Momonga.”

“No gold would be required for maintenance, all the materials needed are before us,” You nod towards Mare, a gesture of appreciation and approval. “And with some false hills, we can hide in plain sight. Very good, little one.”

It’s almost adorable, to see the expression of gratitude on his face at the acceptance of his idea. _Kid really needs a break. Or recognition. Probably both._

“How long should this take?” Momonga asks, giving Mare an appraising look.

“No more than a day, my Lord.”

Momonga nods at that, pleased at the finalisation of this plan _._ Even so, you make a mental note to look over the defences when you have time to spare. _Security is paramount, especially when in unknown waters. I trust you, Boss, but my eyes may spot flaws another’s miss._

“Excellent. While we are on the subject of security, have any of you observed anything strange on your floors?”

A general response of ‘no’ – most of the Guardians shake their heads, though you’re _certain_ there are a couple murmurs about needing to do a more detailed check of their floors. You wait a moment before speaking up.

“Until further notice – or until we gather sufficient intelligence and are capable of proper defence – all floors are at high alert. Guardian Leader Albedo, Guardian Demiurge, the two of you are to construct an overall defensive strategy for Nazarick.” You pause for a moment, considering, before continuing. “If any intruders are found, live capture and subsequent interrogation is preferable. Termination of the intruder is advised if they pose a significant threat to the Tomb.”

Out of the corner of your eye, Momonga nods in agreement. His mental ‘voice’ touches your mind, deep and reverberating as ever. You’re certain there’s a note of encouragement there.

_[Continue, Moore.]_

“Floor Eight is to be locked down, unless I or Momonga authorise access,” You continue, firmly ignoring the uneasy sensation in your gut. Your nerves are finally beginning to act up despite the enforced calm; public speaking still makes you nervous to one degree or another, and there’s only so much experience and training can do _. Some faults never mend, no matter what_. “There is a path between the Seventh and Ninth floors, which will be unsealed prior to the lockdown.”

 _And the last two… well, if someone gets_ that _far, defeat is just a formality. We’d be screwed harder than a bleeding fish in a blood bank filled with sharks._

Momonga comes to the rescue on this one, speaking up from where he stands. “Consider Floors Nine and Ten to be the same in your planning.”

You give him a nod, grateful and subtle.

_[Can you handle the rest, Boss?]_

Momonga’s faint, taut nod comes in reply, and you step back without another word. He can handle the rest; you let your attention fade out, stepping back and letting him deal with the Guardians.

“—to you all, I have a question. In your own words, what are I and Moore, to each of you?”

Your attention snaps back to him swiftly enough, you’re surprised that there isn’t an audible _crack_.

[ _Boss, what-]_

_[Aside from gathering information? Do the words ‘confidence’ mean anything?]_

_[But-]_

_[Moore.]_ You stiffen slightly at that tone. The Boss only uses this tone when he’s dead serious. [ _You were nervous addressing the Guardians, both now and in the Throne Room, despite your efforts to hide it – what about when we have to fight? Can you say that your confidence will not falter then? That your nerves will not win out?]_

Skills and training aren’t perfect, and when all else fails, it’s confidence that lets you stand up and talk in a manner befitting your station. An attack of the nerves during combat could cost you far more than capital or reputation; a break in your mask of leadership cannot be allowed at the moment. You're not Mare, but not Momonga – neither jumping at every word, nor a born leader before crowds.

A cold, heavy weight settles in your gut. The Boss has a point, whether you like it or not.

Your internal curse is one you are far too dignified to transmit, by mouth or by [Message]. 

_[…Point made, Boss.]_ Your words come out far more grudgingly than you expected. _[Let’s get this over with.]_

Shalltear, unsurprisingly, kicks it off. Her eyes glimmer, and- _is that a_ blush _, of all things?_ Half-unconsciously, you prepare for another FPVCoD to be fired.

“Beauty incarnate, Lord Momonga; nothing alive or Undead in this world may compare!” Her eyes turn to you. “Lady Moore, your beauty stands second only to your might as a warrior.”

There is no word of a lie in her voice. No slavish devotion, no sycophantic praise. Her words come from the heart – she believes each and every one of them. Some of the nerves recede, the prior calm beginning to reassert itself. _This… is going better than I expected._

Cocytus is the next to speak – his conviction is as palpable and present as the frost and ice surrounding him.

“ **Lord Momonga, you are a man truly worthy of ruling the Great Tomb of Nazarick; a figure whose strength is unparalleled by any Guardian. Lady Moore, you are a force second only to Lord Momonga; an excellent commander and warrior on the battlefield.** ”

“Aura? Mare?”

“Merciful leaders, with great foresight and cunning.”

“L…Leaders, kind as well as merciful.”

It takes quite the effort not to react at the irony of those words. _If only you both knew._

Demiurge and Albedo remain, the strategist and the general. One to weave plans, the other to see them enforced. You silently brace yourself for the demon’s flattery, letting the ice-water calm drive any remaining nerves back down.

“Lord Momonga, you are a leader who makes wise decisions, and acts upon them efficiently; a man who truly fits the word ‘inscrutable’. Lady Moore, at once a strategist and a soldier; you decimate the enemy with sword and spell alike, while your tactics render your forces unstoppable.”

“Sebas?”

_Really, boss? I get the point—_

“The leaders of the Supreme Beings, who mercifully stayed with us where all others left.”

“And lastly, Albedo?”

If she blushes any brighter, Albedo’s head will probably catch fire. Or jump the Boss’ pelvic bones; you’re not entirely sure which. Surreptitiously, War edges a little closer to you; you can practically see the weirded-out look on her face under the helmet.

_Even the fracking Horseman is disturbed? That's... are there any words?_

“The highest of the Supreme Beings; our master, and the absolute ruler of Nazarick. The man to whom my heart belongs!”

The sound Momonga makes should not be producible by a human throat. Despite knowing what to expect, the fire in your bones blooms upwards and almost escapes your armour out of shock.

 _This is going to be_ Fun _to deal with_. 

“…I see,” Momonga manages to get out. He’s doing a remarkable job of staying calm, all things considered. “Your opinions are heard and understood. The tasks that our former comrades performed are now yours; carry them on faithfully!”

The Guardians bow as one, respectfully. The Boss has taken fully to his role: the towering presence and power of the skeleton-mage before you a far cry from his usual state.

That voice finally gets back out of the cellar in your mind, and wastes no time in ruining the moment.

 _God damn it, Peroroncino, did you_ have _to like them cold?!_

The voice in the back of your head is promptly ambushed, beaten to within an inch of its life, and sent to the deepest cell of a mental gulag, complete with a note to exile that voice to your mental Siberia when you’re done here. You keep your calm, despite the miniature ice age now dancing up and down your spine.

[ _Meet me on Floor Nine when you’re done.]_

Momonga teleports out. A Gate is swiftly opened, and you direct War into it with a soft mutter of encouragement – the massive Centaur canters through after a moment, and you follow suit. The stone of an Arena side-chamber greets you, isolated and unlikely to be discovered. _Perfect_.

You reach up to War’s massive frame, careful not to startle her. She shifts slightly in surprise as you place a gauntlet-clad hand on one shoulder, before speaking lowly.

“War, I am about to try something I haven’t before. Watch me, and keep my body safe.”

War bows her head in acquiescence. You lie down and reach deep, calling on an ability learned long ago – one you used only sparingly during the game.

It may be paranoia, cultivated by a lifetime of corporate manoeuvres and training, but you want to check up on the Guardians post-meeting. See if they notice any flaws, or oddities in your and Momonga’s actions. It’s an irrational, silly fear – hell, they practically worship the ground you walk on! – but it’s a fear nonetheless, and if you don’t do something about it, it’ll keep on nagging at you until something gives. Better to do something now, than risk it causing an issue later. _The more we know, the better._

There’s a sense of dislocation, an odd floating feeling.

Guarded with a wary eye and a massive sword, your body lies upon the floor. The normal glow of the helmet’s eye-lights is out, and it lies completely inert upon the stone.

[Ghostwalk] is an odd ability, in many ways. It allows you to ‘step outside’ of your avatar’s body and move as an intangible, near-invisible spirit – your character’s animating spirit, in the lore— able to spy on other players and monsters. Your body would lie vulnerable, and the range was somewhat limited, but War will take care of the former and the latter was merely a gameplay limitation. At least, you _hope_ the range limit is a gameplay limitation; if it isn't, this plan is going right out the metaphorical window. 

You drift through the walls and portcullises, silent and invisible. A whisper in the air, a tiny disturbance only the most hilariously paranoid would take special notice of.

_Like yourself, Ms. ‘Maybe those that worship us are plotting against me?'_

_…Shut up, me._

The Arena is reached before much time passes. Somewhat surprisingly, general pandemonium _hasn’t_ broken out yet – if anything, they’re acting the same as they were when you and the Boss were there.

“—ll Lord Momonga that I will need time, if he calls me to his bedchamber. I would need to bathe first. Of course, if he wants me to go without bathing…”

_…Universe, why do you hate my sides?_

How you’re laughing as a bodiless ghost is a question for the ages, as is how that is managing to make your side physically hurt. As it stands, you’re too busy trying to focus on the other Guardians while your spine freezes over again.

“I understand,” Sebas promptly speaks up, doing a rather good job of hiding the weirded-out look on his face. “Then I shall take my leave, Floor Guardians.”

He bows slightly before departing. Shalltear, on the other hand…

You, Demiurge and Cocytus near-simultaneously question if she’s alright; understandably so, considering the fact that’s she’s hunched over and quivering oddly. The blush on her face as she looks up makes it clear what’s happened, even as that little voice begins cackling in triumph and the rest of you twitches.

“Such amazing presences excited me so much, that my underwear has gone through a bit of a crisis…” The flush across her cheeks intensifies slightly.

 _Well, that’s_ far _more information than I wanted._ You make the ghostly equivalent of pulling a disturbed face. The other Guardians react variably: Demiurge pushes up his glasses, Aura and Mare pull faces, Cocytus is about as stoic as ever, and Albedo—

“You- You vampiric whore!”

 _Well, she looks veritably homicidal._ If looks could kill, Shalltear would be a greasy smear across the Arena’s sands. Complete with the murderous aura flowing up around her and the half-flared wings, it’s easy to see why she’s the leader of the Guardians. If you still had skin, it’d be prickling under the mix of homicidal intent and power coming from her.

Shalltear answers with a violent eye-twitch and a murderous little smile. “Funny,” She growls, eyes beginning to glow red and her own battle-aura springing up. “Coming from the woman who'd likely _force herself on him!_ ”

“You air-headed **lamphrey!** ”

“Come at me, **bitch**!”

“Oh-ho-ho, I’ve just been **ACHING** for an excuse to do this!”

Without another word, you flit away from the argument, certain you’d be facepalming as hard as possible if you could. _That line is proving_ far _more trouble than it’s worth._

Your spectral form swirls about the wisely-retreating boys of the Guardians, unnoticed as ever. Not much of any interest so far, admittedly, but -

“A great ruler should have an heir, no?”

_…I’m lucky I don’t have a voice at the moment._

"What was that?"

“Lord Momonga and Lady Moore stayed here to the very end.” Demiurge’s face is serious once more, any trace of earlier levity gone. “Someday, they may leave to elsewhere, by choice or design. If an heir of either remained for us to pledge our loyalty to—”

The noise that tears itself out of Cocytus’ thorax should not be as gratifying as it is. “ **What blasphemy are you spouting?!”**

To his credit, Demiurge recovers quickly. Putting on his best ‘persuasive’ tone, the demon’s silver tongue comes into play once more. “Would it not be nice to have a heir of either to pledge ourselves to?”

With a mental roll of your eyes, you resume your idle drift through air and conversation alike. Not much of substance is coming up, and you’re on the verge of giving up and returning when a little soundbite catches your attention.

“By the way, Mare,” Demiurge asks, interest clear in his tone. “What is the purpose of your skirt?”

“Um… Lady Bukubukuchagama chose it for me. She said it was because I’m a… ‘Otokonoko’?” His face scrunches slightly in confusion. “…I’m not quite sure what that means.”

You hang silent in the air, processing his words for a moment, then turn and _bolt_ back towards your body _._ You _really_ don’t want to be reminded of Bukubukuchagama’s ‘special’ interests – the last time was enough for a lifetime, considering the detail she gave them in. _Nope. Nope nope nope nope, nope. Nope!_

A feeling like running into a wall. Cold stone under your back, accompanied by a heavy, threatening presence at your side. Your vision flashes back into life, and your upper half veritably catapults itself upright, fire burning once more within the bones. War’s massive frame turns towards you, a mix of concern and rapidly-rising relief clear in her eyes.

_No signs of them seeing flaws in our performance – a lot more weirdness, but no signs of a problem._

A low huff of breath. War shifts slightly closer to you, bending down to check upon you and ensure your little drift didn’t have any effects.

You reach up to place a reassuring hand on War’s shoulder, only to find yourself caught in a bear hug.

“I’m alright, big girl!” You manage to mumble against the reddish breastplate. War answers by lessening the tightness slightly, giving you a little wriggle room despite your cumbersome armour. There’s still concern in her eyes, concern for you and your well-being; you answer with as much of an expressive nod as you can, and a reassuring repetition of your words. After a little bit of time, War finally lets you go – you promptly open a [Gate] back to the Underworld.

“Go on, War – I’ve got to meet the Boss. I'll see you later, okay?”

War doesn’t object or put on any ‘kicked puppy’ display, not this time. She goes through without complaint, hooves clattering slightly on the stone as she trots towards and through the portal. The [Gate] closes a moment or two later. Scarcely another moment later, there’s the jerk behind the spine as your Ring’s teleportation kicks in.


	5. Sneaky Scary Skeletons

Floor Nine blooms into existence before you as the teleport finishes, and you promptly blink in surprise at the sight before you. Rather than the corridor, as expected, you’ve ended up just outside your bedroom. As in, face-one-inch-from-the-door levels of just outside. Without hesitation, you stride straight into the room, and promptly begin your usual borderline-obsessive study of the details.

The walls are cut from the same dark stone as the Underworld, but they could not be more different in content. Murals and engravings sprawl across the walls and floor, each and every one relating to an event in the history of Ainz Ooal Gown. There, sprawling across half the ceiling, one of Touch Me’s duels with Takemikazuchi lies – the two figures are carved in the middle of their duel, Takemikazuchi lunging towards his opponent with his blade raised high, Touch Me assuming a parrying stance by way of answer.

One, however, dominates them all: spanning the room’s length and running from wall to floor, it depicts the Guild’s two greatest battles, one after the other.

Appropriately enough, it starts with the raid upon the Great Tomb, and the battles against the Five Bosses that first inhabited it. There, over on the far left of the room, the battle between the Pure White Bat and the Guild – the major damage-engines and spellcasters busy with battering the Bat’s health down to zero, while you, Luci★Fer and Bellriver, among others, held back the tide of Bat-Mooks pouring in to attack. From there, it carries on, slowly shifting into the battle against the other Bosses before ending on a triumphant scene: all forty-one of you, standing before Nazarick with your weapons raised high and triumphant poses struck. A perfect scene of triumph.

Your eyes slowly roam across the wall as the engraving shifts into the legendary battle against the Guild Alliance. Touch Me and Takemikazuchi are right at the front, striking their foes down by the dozen with their massive swords. The two may have been friendly rivals, but when united, they were utterly unstoppable. The numerous corpses around their carved forms are testament enough to that, as are the words chiselled right at the top of the image, done in a fit of fancy: ‘ _Welcome to Nazarick, where Guilds come to die.’_

Behind them, spread out over the floors, the rest of the Guild fight: spells streaking forth from the Boss’ carved form to strike down enemies or to raise Undead Summons from the ground, forming a defensive barrier around the path to a lower level. Luci★Fer, sending his Golems to head off a flanking strike by a group of Player-lead NPCs, crushing them under a tide of animated material and magic. Nishikienrai, running seek-and-destroy missions behind the main battle-line; his form was carved to seem as though running forward, leaving the broken bodies of several enemy commanders in his wake. Bukubukuchagama, commanding from the frontline while soaking up damage aimed at the squishier damage-dealers. She had led the defence, pulling tactics that would have made Sun Tzu proud as she went, forming and executing entire strategies in the space of moments, exploiting every natural defence, every passage, and every little advantage Nazarick could offer. 

Much of the battle’s details had to be abridged or omitted, if only due to a lack of space, leaving only the more relevant or important to be included. There’s a jump in time, to where the battle finishes – Victim using the Guild’s trump card, followed by the remaining Guild members and NPCs swarming in to take down the remaining invaders. The quality visibly drops, too: these were finished right as you’d begun being dragged off by a Level 100 Real Life Monster, and the engravings are rather rushed and crude compared to the carefully detailed earlier work. Barely any of the engraved figures have their forms detailed beyond the basic outlines, and the less said about their armour and weaponry, the better.

_Note to self: smooth this crap over and re-engrave it. This doesn’t even remotely do that fight justice._

The only space not covered by engravings is off to the side: a pair of tables, stacked high with arcane books and tools. Much as you trust Amanomahitotsu's work, some designs and enchantments were ones you’d rather do yourself. A few half-complete projects clutter one of the tables: a gauntlet covered with dulled runes, a crown-like helmet lying on its side, a half-finished silver sword with pretty gold filigree on the hilt and a rippling pattern on the blade. Your current sword joins them, set off to the side for now.

At the heart of the room lies one of your most prized possessions: the Altar of Caladbolg. A squat mass of black stone, complete with custom-designed runes, chains, and carved demonic faces. More valuable than anything else in this room, the Altar is where Caladbolg would usually be stored – complete with a direct one-way link to the Armoury, just in case. _Let’s give it a test._

As you stride towards the Altar, it seems to register your presence - the runes blaze brighter, and the light emitted from the carved faces begins to pulse. A weapon forces its way up through the portal: recognisable even at a glance, from the long curves down the sides of the blade, to the numerous ‘evil’ faces and glowing eye-lights that run the length of the sword itself. One of several collaborations with Amanomahitotsu – he would create the actual blade and bring your design into reality, along with performing the enchantments and trickery needed to bring it up to your standards of power. This one is one of the most powerful the two of you built, made and wielded just before the Guild Alliance's attack. 

_Cut the heads from your foes, and the tops from hills._ The flavour text comes to your mind, fresh as the day you first wrote it.

“Caladbolg.” You whisper, reverently.

Your fingers close around the handle—

“Moore?”

You would like to make it quite clear that you did _not_ jump in surprise, nor did you choke on air. That was just a little twitch and a cough. Certainly. Nothing more. Moving swiftly on!

You promptly whip around to face the voice. The door is open slightly, a figure waiting just outside; the black metal and full plate of the adventurer-style armour and red scarf are certainly new, though the voice is unmistakably that of Momonga. You give the equivalent to a raised eyebrow, lowering Caladbolg to your side as you go. “Boss.”

There’s silence for a few moments, long and awkward.

“How’re we meant to match what they think of us?” Momonga asks, abruptly, slumping slightly and lowering his helmeted head into one hand. “I… I mean, I’m an office worker, you’re—”

Your hand grips his shoulder, and you look him right in the eye. His behaviour is entirely understandable under these conditions, but he’s the Boss – he’s the goddamn Guild Leader, and you aren’t about to let him spiral. You've seen far too many good people spiral or break down under stress for you to stand by and not intervene. “We’ve got a fortress, powerful allies, and enough cash to make the likes of the Conquistadors _weep_ in envy _._ We have what we need to survive, to learn where we are and how we _will_ get back.

“We’re Ainz Ooal Gown – we survive, we adapt, we _win_. We _always_ win _._ ” Your grip loosens slightly, and you lower your helmet’s gaze. This was impulsive, unplanned – but as far as you care, necessary. _Let’s just hope the Boss takes it the right way._ “Now come on. Angst later, plan now.”

The Boss nods, regaining his former calm and authoritative presence in the blink of an eye.

“I already have.”

He gestures with a hand, and a suspicious little thought blooms in the back of your mind.

_Was he faking that? Testing my confidence?_

“Shall we?”

You give a nod, banishing that suspicion for now, and place Caladbolg into its back-sheathe. “After you, Boss.”

* * *

If anyone was to see the two of you, it would be rather comical. It’s not often, after all, that you get to see a pair of tall, heavily-armoured skeletons creeping through halls like runaway children.

Clad in your outsize armour, and with Momonga’s equally-oversized armour now covering his bony frame, you wonder for the umpteenth time why you didn’t just [Ghostwalk] on your own. No-one would notice you, and even if they did, damn near nothing could hurt you in that state – you’d be able to see the outside of the Tomb and look about as much as you desired, all without any risk of having to explain yourself.

The answer comes almost immediately: the Boss. You’d played it safe before, but there's something in the simple audacity of his plan that you like; it feels _good_ to toss expectation and logic to the wind, and indulge your reckless side. To take risks you’d never take normally. 

You and Momonga creep right to the final corridor without a single word of challenge or question, or even a single indication that you’ve been seen. It’s almost enough to make you laugh, as you go marching towards the entrance. _The Greatest Base in Yggdrasil, and its guards fail to detect their own bosses. How blind are th—?_

Well, right up until the Boss stops you in your tracks and pulls you behind a pillar with a surprisingly strong hand.

“What the—?”

The Boss shakes his head, raising a finger to point.

_[Look.]_

Three massive figures, all sporting an eclectic mix of wings, claws, horns, and _bondage outfits_ , of all things. If it wasn’t for the flash of an orange suit, halfway out of sight, you’d think them enemies or non-allied monsters. You draw back slightly further into the shadows, trying to dampen the lights of your eyes.

_[Demiurge’s personal guards? They’re, what, level 80? Each?]_

A taut nod from Momonga.

_[Yep. Must be checking the defences, as ordered.]_

 _Demiurge probably has a nose for bullshit, after all that he spews – lying past him would be difficult. Can’t fight past, or we lose allies, probably permanently._ You look over to the Boss, eye-lights narrowing. _Teleportation? No, we’re warded against that._

_[Boss?]_

Momonga pauses for a moment, thinking hard, then gives a sudden nod of the head.

 _[I’ll talk past them,]_ He raises a finger to indicate the pillars, and the long shadows they cast. _[You creep behind those while I distract Demiurge’s underlings. I’ll meet you up top.]_

Momonga gives a sharp, taunt nod to you before rising up and beginning to stride forward. The sound of conversation is your cue; lights still dampened, you hunch down and begin to lumber forwards. It’s slow going, having to consciously remember _not_ to slam your armoured foot against the ground or to let your eyes glow with witch-light, but you gradually creep from shadow to shadow, using the immense pillars as cover. _This must look ridiculous – how have they not spotted me yet?_

One of the Demon Lords visibly twitches, before turning its head in your direction.

_…I spoke too soon._

You freeze almost immediately, the lights of your eyes and armour dampening even further with a thought. The Demon Lord keeps its stare up for a bit more, unnervingly intense, before shaking its head slightly and turning away with a low grumbling noise. You let out a soft, slightly shuddering breath you barely knew you were holding. _That was too close._

Thankfully, there are no more incidents. You slip through the main entrance, and charge out into the freedom of cold air.

* * *

_…Sebas wasn’t kidding. This place is flatter than my chest._

Well, it is for now. The rippling of the earth underfoot, accompanied by the large chunks of dirt being fused into false hills, is soon to put an end to that. _Mare’s handiwork, no doubt._

A quick look around: there’s no sign of the Boss. No doubt the brown-nose is keeping him occupied – that just gives you more time for an initial look about.

Your eyes flicker across the open fields before you, taking in every detail with a careful eye. Structures and defences almost immediately bloom before your eyes, mental images of what to craft and where – that false hill could be turned into one massive false entrance, trapped to hell and back and completely isolated from Nazarick beyond a single choke-point. There could be some pit traps or dummy-tunnels, leading into skeleton-filled pits or caves rigged to collapse and bury the attackers when they enter – that might have a few logistical problems, but a way can be found around that.

_One of the hills could give me a vantage point. Could say hello to the cinnamon roll, while I’m at it._

Climbing to Mare’s position is more difficult than you expect. The walls are smooth and high, and the weight of your armour and gear make it far slower than expected; even so, you’re able to climb by finding the little cracks and finger-holds in the rock, and exploiting them for all they’re worth. More than once, you outright fall back down, restarting from the bottom of the wall. _All we’re missing is a ‘No Climbing’ sign._

With a grunt and a half-hidden scraping of armour, you pull yourself to the top of the wall. Mare hasn’t noticed you, too fixated on his task – his back is to you, though the greenish glow of an earth-element spell is unmistakable. Another massive wave of earth arises and goes rushing towards the walls, slowing moments before impact and compacting tightly before the wall. To see a Guardian’s power in action is… impressive, to state the least. _Earth Surge, plus an amplifying class skill? Clever. Kid’s a lot stronger than he looks._

Ignoring the voice that suggests spooking the living daylights out of him, you speak with as much of an approving tone as possible. _Kid’s doing good work, and that deserves praise._

“Excellent work, Mare,” It takes an effort not to giggle as he jumps in surprise, half-turning to face you. “Though I would suggest some grass be added, when this is done. Fresh-turned dirt is far more noticeable, after all.”

“T-thank you, Lady Moore!” He bows to you once, before returning to his task. You tune out the sound of the earth shifting, focusing solely on the terrain before you. Every second brings new ideas, new designs, and new thoughts on how to fortify Nazarick further.

Some are practical, such as adding false entrances or covered pit-traps and sally-ports for Summoned creatures. Others are far less so, the kind of ridiculously elaborate death-traps seen in spy novels and movies. Amusing though it might be to feed a batch of idiot adventurers to a tank of hungry Undead, it would hardly be efficient or potentially even effective. _Maybe Zombie Piranha? No, no, that’s just stupid. Where would I even_ get _Piranha?_

A heavy thump rings out behind you.

One hand immediately goes to Caladbolg as you whip about, Mare similarly starting in surprise.

Momonga and Demiurge stand before the two of you on the walls. You let your hand drop back to your side, bowing your head in acknowledgement of the two. “Boss. I take it there’s work to be done?”

The Boss gives a nod before he speaks up, punctuating it with a motion of one gauntleted hand. The serious leader is firmly in place, for now, at least. “Correct. We should head back in and get started – check out the surroundings, see if there’s anything nearby.”

“To the Mirror of Remote Viewing, then?” You ask, eyes flickering. More subtly, you send him a [Message].

_[So, you bullshit your way past the bullshitter. I’m impressed.]_

_[I’ll explain when we’re inside.]_ He sounds abnormally terse, his attention split between your mental conversation and the one he’s currently having with Mare. Something passes from his hand to that of the young Guardian – a tiny flash of gold and a reddish gem. _A Ring of Ainz Ooal Gown? Would allow for greater defensive capacity, plus benefits of rewarding your subordinates – very good, Boss._

A flutter of black feathers. You can practically hear Momonga’s internal scream of panic as Albedo descends, the angelic smile on her face marred only by the pulsing vein in her jaw.

 _[Someone’s in trouble_ ~ _]_

Momonga turns towards you and does the skeletal equivalent of clearing his throat.

“Well, Moore, shall we begin our work?” He asks, trying hard to mask the ‘oh-god-help-me-get-away-from-here’ in his voice. You reply with a nod, assuming as neutral a stance and as serious a tone as you can, slipping back into character as best as you can. Funny though it would be to needle him further, work must be done.

“Aye, Guild Leader.”

* * *

Back within the Tomb, safe from prying eyes and ears, you give Momonga 'The Look'.

He visibly wilts under your stare, the gaze of a disappointed little sister finding her brother had painted half the neighbourhood hot pink and tried to pin it on the cat.

“I can explain.” He replies, keeping his voice calm despite the withering gaze.

You wordlessly cross your arms over your armoured chest, your armoured foot tapping lightly against the stone. No words are needed to convey the force of your disbelief. _Really, Boss? **Really?**_

“So,” You begin, keeping your voice carefully neutral despite the withering gaze. “You made a remark to Demiurge on how the world was something to be treasured.”

Nod.

“He suggested you _claim_ that treasure in the name of the Guild and the Supreme Beings.”

Nod. 

“You agreed,” You resist the urge to face-palm as hard as possible. _That would be most undignified._ “And now, the Guardians think we’re set on _world domination._ ”

Nod. Somehow, the Lord of All Nazarick is managing to look sheepish, head lowered and his shoulders slumping slightly.

"Look on the bright side," He begins, tentatively. "We can't do much worse than real life... can we?"

This time, you don’t even try to hide your reaction. One armoured hand slams against your head’s horned helmet with a clang, and you let out an incomprehensible _noise_ of frustration, disappointment, and resignation.

_Ladies and gentlemen, NPCs and Players, the official successor to Loki has been found! May the winner come up to collect his prize?_

“Gods _damn_ it, Boss.”


End file.
